


Haremlander: A Homelander x Reader Story, Part 1

by annie000expatriated



Series: Haremlander: A Homelander x Reader Story [1]
Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Branding, Breeding, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Harems, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Lactation Kink, Power Imbalance, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27682351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annie000expatriated/pseuds/annie000expatriated
Summary: Vought told Homelander that he was sterile, then hid his son from him. Now that son has disappeared once more into the protection of others.His Nazi girlfriend was burned and maimed. She is recovering slowly.As far as Homelander is concerned, he lost everything.But he's Homelander. He can do whatever the fuck he wants. And he has a plan to replace what he feels was unfairly taken from him.Unfortunately for you...you are part of that plan.
Relationships: The Homelander | John/Original Female Character(s), The Homelander | John/You
Series: Haremlander: A Homelander x Reader Story [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057556
Comments: 22
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1: My Country 'Tis of Thee

Your sleepy daze is broken by the sound of distant thunder.

You startle. You hear your computer chair creak beneath you as you rise from it. 

You glance about. The cheap digital clock beside your bed reads a few minutes after midnight. 

Those red numbers are the only light in your tiny New York studio apartment. Except of course for the glow of your monitor, that digital world that you had entered four hours ago and then lost track of time.

You toss your hair out of your face and stride towards your tiny kitchenette, flipping a light on so that you don’t don't bang your toe again. You are pouring yourself a glass of water when you hear the sound once more.

It's like thunder, but closer this time. You cock your head, considering it. No, you think. Thunder is a rumble and a clap that then dies back… this sound fades, then grows again, and grows louder still. Some groggy, half-asleep part of your mind wonders about the sound of an avalanche. It fades from your hearing once more.

But of course that's ridiculous, you think. You've seen too many movies. This is New York, not the Swiss Alps. 

You empty your water glass with a few hearty gulps. The crisp, cold liquid hits the back of your throat and jolts you the rest of the way to wakefulness. Your mind tosses typical midnight thoughts around like socks in a washing machine. _Do I need to change the cartridge on the faucet filter? I should have gone to bed an hour ago._ You have gig work to do tomorrow and bills to pay by the end of the week. 

You wonder if you should just throw out the loose, long button-up flannel shirt that you are wearing as a nightgown. A leftover from your last relationship, and it still smells like him. The scent of Old Spice is comforting… yet it is a reminder of one more thing that couldn't survive the pandemic. Your steady job, your boyfriend's love. The lives of both your parents. Your sleep cycle. A year ago you had all of these things and now you are standing at the sink after midnight beside your cold and empty bed, bereft of even one of them.

A small trickle of icy water escapes the right corner of your mouth and drips down your neck. It slides into the valley between your breasts. You set the glass down on the counter before you and turn towards the window.

You see nothing but a flash of red. It blazes across your field of vision. You hear a deafening crash and fall backwards. 

Your wall bursts open.

Concrete, plaster, steel and glass fly inward towards you as though the far wall of your apartment were punched by a giant fist, or struck by some strange crimson lightning. 

You feel a blazing agony. The pain is concentrated right beneath your belly button, as though a sword of fire somehow slashed across you with only its tip. Through the plaster dust and broken masonry you can smell burning meat.

You scream. The remnants of your cupboards are nothing but splinters. You find yourself both scrambling backwards and attempting to cling to the floor. 

Your senses are engulfed in chaos. It strikes you all at once--plaster dust in your mouth, the deafening noise of a building breaking and crashing in all around you. 

When the sound finally ceases you are on your back, gasping for breath. You feel suddenly still and cold. There is nothing above you but the starry night sky. 

Whatever it was, it just broke through the wall and took down part of your roof. There were no floors above you. Whatever it was...it left a dull, burning throb in your abdomen that feels somehow deep, yet distant. Lost in a haze.

Your head just won't seem to right itself. _Earthquake?_ You think. _Some kind of attack? Is the whole building coming down?_

For a moment you are almost too afraid to move, to even lift yourself up on your elbows. You don't want to look at the source of your pain, as if you expect to see a metal beam sticking out of your body. You bring a hand to your belly and feel your own hot, wet blood.

You make yourself look down. You see tiny wisps of smoke rising from the remnants of your flannel nightshirt. 

You feel as though you are immersed in cold honey. You can move, but slowly. Your hands feel like clumsy and nerveless lumps. Like a rat clawing at a trap you tear aside the smoldering fabric and take in the sight of your own flesh.

Above the waist of your panties there is another line running parallel to the bloodstained elastic. It is not a slice or a scar, but a thin black line of charred flesh. It burns and throbs but doesn’t look to be too deep. Your abdominal muscles still work; you can still sit up.

Blood seeps from the edges of your burn. Gorge rises in your throat. Your mind's eye flashes over images rather than words--the faces of your friends, the memory of your family. You wonder if the building will collapse. Will you die here in the remnants of an overpriced studio, never even knowing what killed you and your neighbors?

Your vision begins to darken around the edges. Suddenly, incongruous in the destruction...the sound of footsteps reaches your ears.

You turn your head towards it. _Someone is...walking on the roof? Or what's left of it?_ You think. _Who could survive…_

In the fog of your shock, you don't see the blonde man all at once. 

You see the silhouette of a figure standing in the bright moonlight. The wind whips through his short hair. His face forms a slow smile as he gazes down at you. 

"I can do…" The man's voice is barely above a stage whisper. He raises his gloved hands as though performing some kind of odd benediction. "Whatever the fuck I want."

He wears a muscle-hugging leotard colored deep navy blue. The accents of his outfit--boots and gloves--are blood red. He wears a golden crest upon each shoulder in the shape of an eagle and a thick belt to match. In the dim light you see the outline of a cape trailing behind him, buffeted by the Autumn wind.

But your eyes are drawn most to his own. They glow an electric shade of red in the night. Their light illuminates the chiseled planes of his strong, classically handsome face. 

There is no mistaking his hungry expression. Even in the dim moonlight. 

A blaze of shame engulfs you. Homelander himself is standing above you...and your body is bare to him, nothing blocking his gaze except for the remnants of your shirtsleeves and your thin white cotton panties. _A dream_ , you think. _No part of this could be real. It's like the dreams I used to have about showing up to class naked. So if I can just wake up..._

His eyes glow a brighter red and a strange electric sound pierces the silent Autumn night. Homelander licks his lips.

You try to open your mouth to speak, but find you can only gasp. The world darkens around you and everything goes cold and black.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2: Sweet Land of Liberty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You awake and learn more about Homelander's plans.

“Aw crap, you're awake already.”

You open your eyes. 

The voice comes from somewhere to your right. It has that raspy, withered tone that immediately makes you think of an exhausted “lunch lady” in your high school cafeteria--hair net eskew, spatula in one hand, smelling of cigarette smoke. Except the smell that hits your nose is of wine.

Your skin feels clean, dry and warm. Except for a numb area between your belly button and pubic mound. You don’t feel cold there. You feel the absence of any sensation at all, like the last time you had dental work done and had novocaine injected into your jaw.

Sitting in an overstuffed brown leather sofa chair to your right, next to the blue-framed doorway, you see a withered old woman. She is wearing the distinctive white coat of a doctor. On her chest where a doctor’s name tag would usually rest there is only a logo. You recognize the symbol of a “V” made by combining a slash and the number seven. _Vought International._

She holds a bottle of wine in her left hand. There is a brown leather doctor’s bag on the chair beside her.

“They told me, fix her up and debrief her. But I’m not drunk enough yet for the second part.” You watch as she raises the dark green bottle to her lips and takes a few deep, loud swigs. In the soft light of the room you don’t see much of the label, but it looks expensive.

While she drinks, you cast your eyes about the room. The light fixture over your head is styled to look like racks of antlers holding frosted glass sconces. They lend the room a muted, soft yellow glow. Logs of polished dark wood with white mortar between them make up the walls. The shuttered windowpane to the left of the bed is painted in faded blue. You look down at your own body to see that it is covered by a colorful patchwork quilt, completing the “rustic cabin” look. The quilt lays across you as though it was thrown there, then hastily pulled up all the way to your chin. There is a dresser at the foot of the bed, piled with throw pillows in a knit farmhouse style. Beneath the quilt you are wearing something that feels soft and cool, like satin. And nothing else.

The old woman sets the empty bottle down on the polished hardwood floor with a loud _clunk._ You turn your gaze back towards her. 

She sighs. “The SS Officers gave _schnapps_ to the _Kapos,_ you know.” Her voice is more than loud enough to reach you, and indeed there is no one else in the room she could be addressing. Yet as she speaks she looks first at the wall above your head, then at the dresser closer to your feet. 

Your arms feel numb and your legs are spread apart beneath the quilt. You try to move your limbs and feel a biting pressure against your wrists and ankles.

You look up at the headboard. It is made up of rough-hewn oak beams thicker than your arm, and your wrists are tied to it. With a growing horror you realize that your body has been spread out like a starfish, and then tied in place to the bed beneath you.

“Ah, you're barely out of college I bet. If you even went.” The old woman continues. “Suppose that's all just dribble drabble to you, isn't it? Ancient history.”

_I’ve heard of the SS, damn it!_ You attempt to spit the words at her, along with many more--a hundred questions, and a raging scream asking what possible sequence of events could have led to you being tied spread-eagle to a bed you have never even seen before. But the words are stopped. Your mouth doesn’t feel right, it won’t even close all the way. You taste dry cotton fibers and realize that you are gagged.

Panic grips your heart like an icy fist. You flail against your bonds so hard that your wrists and ankles begin to ache, held fast by thick rope. You scream into your gag.

“It doesn't matter. Nevermind about the _Kapos."_ She flinches but still won’t meet your eyes. “Call me Dr. Nobody. A lot of dirty jobs out there, and being on Vought's cleanup crew is damn near as filthy as repairing the gas chambers in a concentration camp. So of course I’m drunk again."

For a moment she goes silent, and you hear nothing but the hoot of owls outside and the wind through the tree branches. You notice the slope of the roof above you and begin to hear muted tones of conversation beneath. You think that you must be on the second floor of a cabin somewhere in the woods, and that there are several people downstairs.

Your head spins. She clears her throat and wipes her wine-stained mouth on her sleeve. “A Vought asset loses his temper with some whore and burns both her tits off? Call Dr. Nobody to start doing skin grafts. You'd better believe Lamplighter kept me busy. Then, today...the big, red, white and blue jewel in the Vought crown has the world's worst week and decides to throw a temper tantrum in the sky. Don't know how the PR department is going to spin that one. He tore a chunk out of a bridge and started to slice and dice apartment buildings with his eyes. They'll probably say he was fighting someone. That's not my department. I’m just...Doctor Nobody. They only called me because Homelander took some bitch, and didn’t want her to die from the laser burns before he’s finished.”

Her voice drones on, punctuated with the occasional slurred repetition or inebriated hiccup. “I guess you oughta know the score at least. You’ll live longer that way.”

The picture of Homelander that she paints with her words is not the superhero you have seen in the news and advertising your entire life. The face in the background, the smiling visage on a box of cereal. You can't even recall any _specific_ memory. He has always blurred together with your concept of your own country the way Santa did with Christmas, polar bears and Coca Cola. You knew what he represented. And it wasn't breaking buildings in half and abducting women in the night.

But this woman spins an elaborate, unbelievable tale of what set him off. One of the scientists of Vought International told him he was sterile, then hid his son from him. He tried to be a father but that son slipped through his fingers once more.

“It's not my decision. I heard him talking to the suits.” She smirks to herself while talking not to your face, but to the wall above your head. “The lawyer kind of suit, not the Super kind of suit. They decided to give him this. After everything that happened with Stormfront, and with his son...they weren’t surprised that he threw a temper tantrum in the sky, they were just glad he finally finished with it. Apparently he saw a naked woman in the wreckage and got an idea.”

She rubs her empty, withered palms together and shrugs her narrow shoulders. “Compared to everything he _could_ do, this is nothing. When in history have powerful men not kept a few concubines? You're the first but he plans on taking more. If six more cabins like this are what it takes to calm him down, with a stolen woman in each one… it's worth it to the suits. A bitch for every day of the week. Small price to pay.” 

_Oh my God...no. No. It can’t be. Small price for them, because they aren’t the ones paying it!_ You feel a deep, tight knot of dread in your gut and your mouth tastes like an old copper penny. No longer testing your bonds, you lay perfectly still. The cold weight of dread presses down upon you. _And you can’t even make yourself look at me._

“Officially, you died with everyone else on the top floor of your building. Your old life is over. You have one job now, and that's to keep him happy. You’re going to see a few Vought folks around...security, maintenance and all that. Don’t try to ask us for help. It’s out of our hands. And yours.”

Dr. Nobody rises to her feet and picks up the leather bag beside her. She pauses in the blue-framed wood doorway and casts the next words over her shoulder, still not meeting your eyes.

“One more thing. He asked me to check if you are fertile. Silly man doesn’t know there isn’t some kind of pocket thermometer for that. But I looked up your medical records, found your intrauterine device, and took it out.” She sighs. “Get it now? He calls himself a god, and he wants to hear the pitter-patter of little gods. You’re a means to an end.” 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3: Of Thee I Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homelander makes use of his newest toy.

You strain your ears to hear the voices in the room beneath your own. There’s nothing else you can do, tied to a bed and unable to move. The sound is muffled and soon dies down. You hear the front door of the cabin bang shut. The shuffle of footsteps is replaced by a single distinct sound. One set of boots, ascending a wooden staircase. 

The wind howls outside. You hear the hooting of an owl. You wonder what hour of the night it could be. There is no clock in the room.

Your breath quickens. A broad-shouldered shadow darkens the open doorway.

You fight the urge to hide your face against one of your bound arms. You stare straight at Homelander, willing yourself to take in every detail instead of hiding your eyes. Dr. Nobody’s words flash across your mind. _If you know the score, you’ll live longer._

He crosses the threshold and enters the room. Soft yellow light illuminates his face. 

Some part of you had expected his eyes to still be glowing red, or for him to look down upon you with that carnivorous glower. You are surprised to see him saunter in as though he were simply a man coming home after a long and productive day. Homelander's posture is relaxed, the lines of his face softened by calm.

“Been waiting long?” He smiles and gives you a wink. 

You hear the floorboards creak beneath him as he takes another step towards you. He pauses beside the leather chair long enough to tug off his gloves. He sets them down with practiced care, one on top of the other. You notice the gold trim on the red leather.

Your eyes follow every small movement of his body as it grows larger in your view, coming towards you. His right hand, ungloved, reaches out.

He yanks away the quilt covering your body in one sharp motion. The gesture reminds you of that “tablecloth trick” that you have seen in online videos and comedy sketches. It flies across the room and hits the dresser. Knit pillows scatter to the floor.

Before, you could only feel the texture of the satin chemise against your skin. Now you can see it in the dim light. The material reaches to the middle of your thighs. It is a dark shade of red with white lace trim at the hem and neckline. 

Homelander cups your cheek in his hand and studies your face. His cold blue eyes make you think of sea ice. You shiver.

He pulls back his hand and lays a single finger upon the cloth of your gag. 

“If I take this out, are you going to be good for me?” His tone is low, condescending. He sounds as though he were soothing a frightened animal. 

You nod. You wonder if he, with his Super abilities, can hear your heart pounding. You feel as though you can almost hear it yourself. The blood roars in your ears.

He pulls the cloth from your mouth and you gasp. You hear the springs of the bed beneath you squeaking as he sits down upon it. His eyebrows are raised, his face expectant. 

You purse your lips. Your mind races, wondering if he wants you to introduce yourself or to plead for your life. After a moment the pieces click together in your mind.

“Thank you.” You whisper. 

Homelander raises one eyebrow and leans in closer. You feel the pressure of his right hand against your throat. He doesn’t strike or squeeze your windpipe, just holds you there for a moment. His fingers begin to press harder.

“Thank you, _Sir!_ ” You yelp. You feel as though the words are coming from deep within you, from the place in your chest where you store your own will to keep breathing.

“Thank you, Sir.” You repeat the words, softer this time.

“There you go. It’s best if we start these things out on the right foot, don’t you think?” 

His hands release your neck and begin to roam the rest of your body. One cups and squeezes your right breast, then your left, lifting them both out of your lace-lined chemise. The other hand reaches down and grips your vulva. It is a possessive gesture, as though the space between your legs was a ripe fruit that he had just picked from a tree and was preparing to devour. 

You feel the heat of his breath on your neck. He stops manhandling your chest and lifts that hand to the back of your head, taking your hair in his fist. He presses his lips against yours. 

You return his kiss. You find your body arching towards him, not knowing if it is out of habit or the desire to keep him placated. Your chest heaves. You feel the wiry texture of his distinctive uniform against you. You wonder if this is what Kevlar feels like.

Homelander breaks the kiss and pulls back. You see him chewing at his bottom lip with a furrowed brow, as though catching himself making a mistake.

He shakes his head. “No.” He whispers. “You’re not her. No kissing. We have to do things...a little differently here.”

_Her?_ You wrack your brain, trying to imagine who he might mean. But the question flies from your mind when he stands up from the bed and lowers his pants. He straddles your chest, his erection inches from your face. 

“Suck. Now.” His voice is a low rasp, almost a growl.

The musky scent of him invades your nostrils as his erection stabs into your mouth. He hits the back of your throat with the first thrust and you gag. He takes your head in both hands and pumps it back and forth, controlling every motion. Deciding even when you can suck in a single breath. The hairs of his groin tickle your nose. You feel his scrotum slap against your chin. 

You hear him grunt louder with each thrust. You can see the muscles in his thighs clenching. He has lowered his pants, not removed them, and his shirt and boots are still in place. 

Homelander pulls out of your mouth and leans back. You see his eyes flicker to the ropes at your wrists.

“You look…” He draws out the next word. “De-e-lectable like this. But you don’t _need_ to be tied down, do you?” 

“No Sir.” You gasp out the words. No need to say the obvious, you think. He could snap your neck with far less effort than it took to destroy your building.

He reaches up to loosen the ropes at one wrist, then the other. Pain shoots up your arms and your fingers feel like pins and needles. You thank him through gritted teeth.

Homelander rises from the bed. His back faces you when he turns to loosen the knots that bind your ankles, first one and then the other. You see his American flag cape swish back and forth. Stars at his shoulders, stripes down his back. 

Even though you had never thought of yourself as particularly patriotic...the sight of _that_ on _him_ has a sting all its own. Your mind searches for the right comparison and you find yourself imagining Timothy McVeigh’s mugshot, with your own baby blanket wrapped about the shoulders of that criminal. The image is galling.

“Come here and bend over.” Homelander retreats a step or two from the bed and pumps his erection in his fist. It occurs to you that his endowment is on par with most men, at least in your limited experience. He is just more cruel with how he uses it.

You crawl across the bed, your limbs shaky beneath you. He arranges your body until your feet press against the floor and your bottom is raised up towards him. With one hand he fists your hair again and pushes your face against the quilt. 

In your haze, you realize that part of your abdomen still feels numb and dead. The texture of the quilt and of the satin against you...every nerve ending feels it, except for the ones between your belly button and the rise of your pubic mound. You still haven’t gotten a good look at the burn there since you awoke.

Homelander's hands feel strong against you but oddly soft and supple, not calloused like your last boyfriend’s hands. You idly wonder how often he takes off those gloves. 

You feel the head of his cock press against your entrance. He releases his grip on your hair and squeezes your bottom with both hands. 

“Never try to kiss me. Get used to being taken like this. You’re not her.”

Homelander drives his cock into you hard and fast. You scream into the fabric of the quilt. Your inner walls clench around him and you are surprised by how wet they feel, as if your body is responding against your will. You feel your pussy clamping down on him.

He stops thrusting in and out like a piston and begins to vary the angle of his hips, as though he were dancing. It makes your tight channel feel stretched to the limit. 

His grunts grow louder, more intense. His voice is hoarse when he speaks again. 

“You cannot…” Homelander presses the rest of his body against yours from behind and you feel his teeth nibbling at your neck. “Imagine…” The word is hot against your ear. “What we had together. Two gods making love in the sky, smeared with the blood of you mud people.” His pace quickens as though even the memory lights a fire in his loins. “You’re not Stormfront. You’re just a _snatch.”_

Both a slur and a play on words, you think. You were snatched from your home.

Homelander pumps his hips one last time and digs his teeth into you. You scream out in pain as he shouts out his climax. You can feel your skin breaking in the grip of his jaw. 

His teeth release you and he collapses against your back. You feel him shiver once more. He grows still.

He softens inside of you and pulls out. You feel his fluids leaking out from your slit and a trickle of blood from where he bit the nape of your neck. You feel ragged, exhausted, used up. Your breath comes in shallow pants. 

Homelander arranges your body, as though you are a rag doll. Soon you are laying upon your back with a pillow under your hips. 

“Stay there. Don’t you dare move. It will help.” 

You obey. He steps out of the room for a moment and when he returns his uniform is in perfect order again, his hair combed back into place. 

He lays back down on the bed beside you with his head propped up on one hand. The expression on Homelander's face is triumphant. As though he is surveying the battlefield after a bloody, righteous victory. 

He strokes the curves of your body with one hand, as though he were petting a cat. He toys with the white lace of your chemise. “Good girl.” He smirks down at you. “You took it well. You’re made for this.”

You look up into his eyes, trying to read his mood. You find yourself wondering why he is even still in the room with you. Why not rape and run, especially after spending so much time talking about another woman? Why not go back to her? Was she dead or alive?

“Stormfront.” You whisper the name aloud, trying to jog your own memory. You can’t quite recall everything you heard about her. You were never one to follow the news religiously. Something about her being the newest member of the Seven, and then something about Nazi ties. After that she just disappeared from the public eye. “That is, Sir, isn’t she still alive? Just...arrested, I think? You talk about her as though she’s dead.”

Homelander's face twists in a grimace. “You can't imagine what it's like to go to that lab and just...see her. Ever tried to roast a marshmallow and it catches on fire? That's what she looks like now. There is...more of her every time I visit. But it's all going to take a while. She's out of it, speaking German half the time.”

You try to picture what he describes, imagining him at the bedside of a half-destroyed lover...and then leaving it, to kidnap and rape someone he just described as a _mud person._ It doesn’t compute in your mind. Dr. Nobody’s words ring in your ears again, about how knowing the score is your best chance at staying alive. 

You find that it doesn’t take much coaxing to get Homelander to talk about himself. He doesn’t spare the details of his visits to her, as though being able to speak of it out loud is a great weight off of his chest.

“Her eyes don't always… see you.” He sighs. “But last time I was there she looked straight at me, tried to reach out with an arm that wasn't there, and shouted _Lebensborn!_ Then she passed out again. Like just _that_ was too exhausting.”

You see his hand come to rest over the numb patch on your belly. You still have no feeling there. It is like a blank space to your senses. 

“I got angry at first.” Homelander continues. “I thought that it was a man's name. But I looked it up. You should too.”

_Lebensborn._ You turn the word over in your mind but can’t quite place it.

“When I saw you laying there, it reminded me of what she said. What she wanted. How much she loved...Ryan. Well, there you were. You looked good enough to eat. And...you know, Aryan enough. I could hardly give her black babies to raise.”

_Oh my God._ Your hands clench into fists and your whole body shakes.

Homelander reaches down and lifts the hem of your chemise, giving you a clear view of your numb abdomen for the first time. A gasp catches in your throat and your hand flies to your mouth.

“I started it by accident.” He shrugs. “But I finished it on purpose. Doesn’t it look nice?”

You remember seeing a blackened strip of flesh between your belly button and your panties, but this is something else. The line has been cleaned, deepened…

And added to. Made into the crossbar of the letter “H.”

He gave you not one blast from his laser eyes, but three. While you were out cold Homelander burned the first letter of his name into your body. 

The pieces slide into place in your mind. He branded your womb...and took it home with him.

The breath flies from your lungs. You feel as though a hole has already been torn through the center of you, where your uterus sits. You see his plan play out behind your eyes.

_Dr. Nobody told me you were a rapist. But I didn’t imagine...._

_No. You colonized my womb....so that you can give it to a Nazi._

_There is no pit in Hell deep enough for the Devil to put you in._

Some part of you thinks that this is a strange way of putting it. You don't even know if you believe in any sort of afterlife, or a Devil or God. You hadn't really spent much time pondering the subject. It didn’t seem relevant to your day-to-day life.

Not relevant, that is...until you imagined not only giving birth to sons or daughters with his face, but watching them being ripped from your arms.

Homelander's face bears a small, wistful smile. “I believe that she wants me to do this. With you, and not just you. I’m thinking about getting a snatch for every day of the week. I think that's what she was trying to say when she said, _Lebensborn.”_

He pats your hand where it rests upon the bed. “You'll be taken care of if you keep being good. Once Stormfront is back on her feet and our family is big enough, Vought will… oh, you know how they do things. Give you $45,000 and some papers to sign, then release you back into the wild.”

He chuckles. “You won't be able to use your old name anymore, of course. You're officially dead. They'll give you a new one. Consider it… the witness protection program, except privatized.”

He plants a quick kiss atop your head. “Get some sleep, my little snatch. You’re going to need it.”


	4. Chapter 4: Land Where My Fathers Died

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homelander's plan is coming along nicely. For him, that is.

You pace the cabin. Over the past two months you have memorized every detail of this tiny structure. You can see it when you close your eyes.

You pace from the deadbolted front door to the base of the stairs that lead to the bedroom loft. Now, the cabin is lit with a soft evening glow. 

You turn back to face the door. At your right, there is a dining table with six chairs. All are made of polished dark wood. Once a week two delivery men in Vought jumpsuits unlock the front door, set a few bags of groceries on the table, and leave. You have tried to talk to either one of them but they never uttered a word, and when you stepped too close to them one brandished an electric baton. You always unpack the food and put it away in the kitchen. 

At your left, there is a cream-colored sofa covered in dark blankets and knit pillows. A matching chair is next to it and a television in front. The TV remote sits on a small coffee table. It gives you the same movie and television subscription services you had in your apartment. Minus any access to the Internet, of course. There is a tall bookshelf next to the television. 

You have flipped through the pages of every one of those books by now, but read only a few. They are all either reference books, old history books or classic American novels. _Atlas Shrugged_ sits next to _The Fountainhead_ , unread, gathering dust. They are even less appealing for you now than they were in your first year of college.

The stairs leading up to the loft bedroom are behind you. You turn towards them, and pace the cabin.

Next to the kitchen is a small washroom. That, too, is kept stocked with toiletries and cosmetics. You have made use of them every day.

You have to. There is no way of knowing when Homelander might show up, and he expects you to always be primped and ready for him.

Sometimes he opens the door and strides in with the same grin that he gives paparazzi. At times he says, “Honey, I’m home!”

Sometimes you just wake up in bed and he is on top of you. Thrusting into you and biting at your neck. There is a ring of marks there, old and new. 

You look down at your body. This morning, you picked a black lace babydoll chemise and matching panties. There are no “street clothes” in the bedroom dresser upstairs, just lingerie for you and several identical Super suits for him. You do not even have shoes.

You reach the stairs, turn around, and pace the cabin. 

It would be almost like quarantine, you think. If it wasn’t for the narcissist coming out of the sky at random intervals to pump you full of his seed.

The windows are not shuttered now, but they do not open. They are covered by gauzy white curtains. 

You stop pacing the cabin and pull a curtain back to look out the window on your right. The colorful leaves have given way to bare trees and branches covered in frost. You were taken in autumn and it is winter now.

The sky above is blue-black and cloudless. There is no clock but you can tell it is just past sunset.

After the first week here there were Vought builders outside this window. Now, the area reminds you of an extra-spacious campground. 

There is a row of cabins with enough space between one another that you can see when your neighbours have their lights on, but not see the lines of their faces like in a crowded New York apartment building. A long dirt road connects them. Everything else is just thick trees and a few patches of sky, as far as you can see. You have not left this cabin even once since the day you woke up tied to the bed.

These rustic little homes are not identical. The one you are in is the oldest. You have seen enough of those modular, prefabricated structures to recognize the ones out your window. The sort that are brought in as a series of pieces and then quickly assembled on site.

You see one of them on either side of you but you know that there are more. You know this because Homelander brags to you about each conquest he brings in. Over the past two months he has collected six “snatches,” including yourself. 

That left only one dwelling empty. The one that you can see through this window.

Or, it _was_ empty. Its windows are lit for the first time. You see a shadow move within. The cabin door opens and bangs shut again. Like your own door, it can only be opened by a palmprint lock.

You hear the front door open behind you. The lacy black fabric of your chemise twirls around you as you spin towards the sound.

Homelander stands beside the sofa. He is coated with an uneven layer of human gore.

Rivulets of long-dried blood cover his face from hairline to chin. A long “stripe” of blood in his hair is so thick that it glues his short blonde mane to his scalp.

He looks as though he ran through a blood waterfall. Then stepped out of it, and allowed it to dry on him. Amid the textured pattern of eagles on the shirt of his Supe suit, you see shards of bone no larger than fingernail clippings. The golden eagles at his shoulders are covered with blood like a layer of patina. The sight makes your body freeze. Your knees shake.

You see no rage or hunger in his eyes. Only a mild exhaustion. He cocks his head towards the cabin’s washroom. He proceeds in that direction without looking at you. 

His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “C’mon. You have to wash this off of me. It’s been a long day.”

You follow at his heels. He leaves his outfit in a pile on the bathroom floor and steps into the shower. 

Your eyes widen. You have never seen him entirely naked before. He always clung to his Supe suit like a life raft during sex, only lowering the pants when nessecary and putting them back into place at the first opportunity.

You drop your panties and leave your chemise there on the floor with them, in a pool of sheer fabric and lace. You open one of the drawers beneath the sink and grab a fresh bar of white soap. 

Homelander steps into the shower and turns the water on. There is more than enough space for two people in here. The tall glass shower door is quickly becoming foggy from the steam. The tiles around you resemble a mosaic made of river rocks.

You lather the soap and begin to apply it to his back. He turns around and washes out his hair while you slather his chest, stomach, groin and legs. When the water no longer comes off of him tinged with pink he gives a deep, relaxed sigh. 

The coppery scent of blood is gone and Homelander smells only of soap. His body is flawless. It lacks even the tiny scars often left behind by acne. Somehow, this makes you shiver again. You think of a Greek statue you saw in a museum once, the famous one of the nude man preparing to hurl a discus. _And_ , you think, _he is just as inhuman as that statue._

He reaches down to shut the water off. You continue to stroke and rub him with your hands, worshiping the muscles of his body. You have done the same before, though always through the suit he normally wears. It calms him.

He turns back around, gives you a small smile and strokes your wet hair. “Well, my collection’s complete. A snatch for every day of the week.” He steps out of the shower and begins to towel himself off. You do the same.

You think of the light you saw out the window. The cabin beside your own, occupied for the first time.

He pats his chiseled face dry. His eyes are on his own reflection in the mirror. “Took this one from Norway. She’s a bit older than you but she was pushing a double stroller, and you never saw blonder hair or bluer eyes. She’ll breed well.”

The mental image makes you step back from him, although you are accustomed to hearing similar comments from Homelander.

He casts his eyes towards you and chuckles. “No, I just...left the stroller there. But her husband got in my way. He made the mess you just cleaned up.” He wraps a fluffy white towel around his waist.

Your skin crawls. You cast your eyes down at the discarded Supe uniform on the floor. _Those little white chips of bone…_ You think. _Yesterday, it was a father. A person. A man._

You turn away from him and begin drying your hair with a fresh towel. You thought you had begun to be numb to his atrocities but tears sting the back of your eyes.

He beckons for you to follow him into the now-familiar loft bedroom and dons a fresh Super suit. You idly wonder why he would even bother dressing. There is no one in the cabin besides him and a wet, naked woman whom he has been training to bend over or fall to her knees on command. _It’s as though he’s a snail, and that suit is his shell. Part of him. His home. His armor._

He eyes you from head to toe. You see him do a double-take and peer closer at you. His cold blue eyes focus on the “H” on your belly. On your branding.

He steps closer to you and kneels down. Homelander is eye-level with your abdomen, his chin above your pubic mound.

Suddenly his face breaks into a boyish grin. He puts his hands on your hips and plants a kiss on the center of your branded belly. Before you can even wonder at this, he scoops you up with surprising gentleness and deposits you upon the rustic patchwork quilt of his bed.

He kisses down your neck and suckles at your breasts. Homelander pauses and meets your gaze, reading the obvious confusion there.

He moves his uniformed body on top of yours, as though to possess your flesh more fully. You feel his hot breath against your ear as he whispers into it, “I can see through almost anything, you know. I can see through _you._ You’re finally pregnant. I gave you twins.” 

You gasp. A wild sort of animal panic fills your body and you thrash beneath him. Your limbs flail and you begin to sob.

His expression darkens and you immediately feel his iron grip on your throat. He says nothing, but displeasure radiates from every line of his face. His nose is mere inches from yours. 

The implication is clear. You were supposed to have accepted your place in the world by now. You ruined the moment for him with your outburst of tears.

You expect him to lower his pants and use you hard. Instead he rises from the bed and adjusts his fresh blue uniform, composing himself.

For a long moment he regards you thoughtfully. Then his boyish grin returns.

“And I thought we were getting along so well. I suppose now that I don’t need to worry so much about putting a bun in your oven…”

He rubs his chin as though contemplating the matter. “We can do other things.”

You wipe the tears from your eyes with a fist. “Other...things, Sir?”

He makes a tsk-tsk sound. “Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean. Not your mouth. What else is there?”

You feel your anal sphincter clench at the thought and you can’t hide your horrified expression. One of your college boyfriends occasionally put a finger up there in the heat of passionate sex. But that was all.

He shrugs. Homelander turns away from you. “Well, I suppose I don’t have to. I was going to give the new snatch a day to recover, but I could always go show _her_ a good time instead.” 

You feel as though an icy fist has gripped the center of your chest. _You just killed her husband. And then flew her through the air here...all the way from Norway? It’s a wonder she is even still alive._ Knowing him, he might have dropped her and caught her in midair. Just for fun.

What kind of person would you be if you let him leave the cabin and sodomize her instead? You're used to it by now, you think. You've had him on top of you, behind you, all over you. He’s been inside you regularly for weeks. Can this really be that much worse?

You push all thoughts of pregnancy or his fellow victims from your mind. You sit up in the bed and kiss the back of his right hand, then his left, in a blind attempt at placating him. “No. Stay with me. Please.” 

He pulls his hands out of your grip and crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s not how you beg me for it. Convince me.”

You grit your teeth and cast an imploring look up at him. “Please, Sir. Please use me.”

He rolls his eyes and takes an exaggerated step towards the open doorway of the bedroom. “Now you’re just half-assing it.” His lips twitch in a smirk at his own pun.

You feel a blazing sensation in your face and wonder if it has gone purple with shame. “Sir, please put your big cock in my bottom instead.”

“Stupid. What do I have to do, draw you a map? Go to the bathroom and use what’s under the sink to prepare yourself for me. Then come back here and show me exactly where you want it.”

The hardwood planks of the floor slap your bare feet as you dash off to the washroom. In a moment you are there, opening the bottom drawer beneath the sink.

You know the layout of the cabin by now. You remember the inventory of each cupboard or closet. How could you not, after being cooped up in here for so long? You had dreaded the implications of the enema bulb and store-brand lubricant in the bottom drawer beneath the sink. But you had simply put it out of your mind. Like so many other things over these past two months.

The bulb reminds of you of a turkey baster, but shortened. You use it in your tight sphincter until what you expel comes out clean. The warm water in your rectum is not unpleasant but the lube feels cold and slimy. 

You scamper towards the bedroom but don’t see him there. His familiar, dark blue silhouette is moving in the other direction. Towards the front door.

“Never mind.” He casts the words over his shoulder, one hand above the front door’s palmprint lock. “I got tired of waiting.”

“No, please!” Like a dog, you fall to the planks of the floor beside him and raise your hindquarters high in the air. You even wave your naked bottom about in a lewd display that feels awkward to you, and ridiculous…

But it works. 

You look over your shoulder and see him turn away from the light blue cabin door. You hear the familiar sound of his boots behind you. He lays an ungloved hand upon one of the twin globes of your bottom. You hear him adjusting his clothing. Lowering his pants. 

“You’re a dirty girl.” His voice is low and thick. “But you’re _my_ dirty girl.”

You feel his hardness press against your smallest hole. It circles the entrance, teasing it, smearing lubricant everywhere. With no other preparation he thrusts in, all the way to the base. His testicles slap against your vulva.

You shriek into the hardwood planks. Being penetrated there is a strange, dark sort of sensation that sends waves up agony and shame rippling through your body. You feel it all the way up your spine, and down to the tips of your fingers. Your hands claw at the floor and punch against it until your knuckles are bloody.

“It’s okay.” Homelander grunts as he begins thrusting. Each pump makes you shiver and squeal anew. “Scream as loud as you want. Might as well let the other snatches know what they’re going to get.”

You feel as though a circuit in your mind has been activated, or a switch flicked on. Like a smaller dog who has been soundly beaten by a larger one and so rolls upon her back and presents her belly. A supplication that you feel down to the depths of your soul.

You begin to babble honorifics before you even realize you are doing it. First _Sir,_ over and over again. Then _Homelander, Master, god, hero._ Among them, you say _Daddy._

The sound he makes at that word reminds you of a roaring lion. You feel his hips twitch and shake against you.

He thrusts one more time. You feel his seed filling up your bowels. The pain suddenly stops. He collapses against your back and you hear him panting in your ear. 

You slide to the floor together. That word had an electric effect on him, you think. It brought him to his peak so hard and fast...and left him looking gentle, weak as a kitten. His face wears an expression of pure bliss.

You expect him to soon fall asleep right there beside you. Instead, he scoops you up in the cradle of his arms.

Homelander climbs the cabin stairs and crosses the threshold of the bedroom, still carrying you as you have seen grooms carry their brides in old movies.

He lays your body down on the bed. You hear it creak beneath you. His lips flutter across your branded belly, then lower. You feel his kisses on the inner folds of your vulva. You feel the heat of his breath against your thighs.

His tongue begins to move side to side across your clit and you gasp. He has never eaten you out before. His pace is steady, like a metronome. He doesn’t tire the way most men would. 

Your hips begin to buck against him. Your climax hits you like a freight train. Your flesh feels like putty, overstimulated, wrung out. 

Once the afterglow of it fades you feel as though your own body has betrayed you. Like he just claimed another piece of your soul. Something breaks in your chest and you burst into tears.

You wrap your arms around him. You still don’t kiss his lips but you smother his neck, cheeks and hair in adoring little kisses. 

“I love you, Daddy.” You whisper. “I love you, Daddy.” 

Before you fall asleep you stare at him in the darkness of the bedroom and wonder, _Is this what they call Stockholm Syndrome? Or am I just broken?_

_He’s a monster who tears apart cities the way a kid knocks over sandcastles. So what does that make me?_

_It makes me the snatch who just came for him. Who kisses him, adores him, and says she loves him. Who washes that bloodstained body of his. And calls him Daddy._

***

The weeks pass more quickly after that. When he saunters in through the door you always greet him with this new “title.” It brings a smile to his face and makes his eyes shine.

He will often come to you only to spend an hour or two sitting on the couch watching an old movie. While he does this, you always kneel on the rug and clean his booted feet with your tongue. At times while you lick his boots he will reach down to insert a finger or two into your anus. Just to remind you of your place.

Then after the movie is over he will lay you down beside him to stroke and kiss your expanding abdomen. Now that you have begun to show, he is more gentle with you. 

In time you realize that he is using you to tease himself. He will often leave your cabin with an erection, and then you will hear screams of pain and terror from one of the other cabins.

You lose track of time entirely. Your belly swells. The days grow shorter and darken into a long, cold winter. 

You know it has been less than nine months, far less. But your ankles are swollen and your belly is heavy. You often feel stirring, kicking in your womb. 

Homelander tells you not to worry. The last one developed fast as well, or so he was told. He is Super, after all. He tells you that you still aren’t due for a while but the doctors should be keeping an eye on things. 

A long white van arrives that afternoon via the dirt road outside. Homelander takes your hand and leads you out into the open air for the first time in untold weeks. 

You climb into the back of the van. It is painted white except for the Vought logo, which shines bright silver on all sides. You are not surprised to see three other women already seated within it. Their skin is fair like yours and their round, gravid bellies weigh them down. Like you, they all wear long maternity dresses dyed navy blue. The exact color of Homelander's uniform.

“Don’t worry. You’ll see me again before too long.” Homelander nods at each of his women in turn. “I will stop by the maternity wing every time I visit Stormfront.”

“That’s...where she is?” The question comes from a tall blonde woman sitting beside you. “Where she...heals?”

“Of course.” He grins. “Vought’s best medical facility, for my lover and my children.”

He shuts the back doors of the van. You hear a lock click into place.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5: Land of the Pilgrims' Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inside a Vought medical facility, Homelander's "Lebensborn" project begins to bear fruit.

Stormfront looks oddly like a butterfly, you think. If the wings were replaced by electrical wires in varying colours. If the insectoid body was then reshaped into the hourglass form of a woman.

A woman with a cybernetic right arm, no left arm, and legs that end above the knee.

Where her limbs used to be there are only stumps packed with medical gauze. Except for her advanced prosthetic, which is a mix of steel woven with wires. It attaches to her body midway through the bicep.

Her entire torso is wrapped in white gauze, making you think of a baby swaddled in a bed. The hum of many computers running at once fills the air, but you scarcely notice it anymore.

The gauze extends up to her neck. Her face is left uncovered except for a patch of the same material taped over one eye.

Her torso is supported by a hospital bed with the back inclined. It holds her upright as though she were standing.

Her one shining steel arm extends outward. She points to you. She beckons at you to approach her hospital bed.

“Come here. Let me see my twins.”

You step forward, keeping your eyes lowered. Homelander has told you more than once that he would break both of your legs if you ever showed her any disrespect.

Even through your blue maternity dress, Stormfront's arm of steel feels cold. You suppress a shudder.

The hand slides up and down your swollen belly. It's clear that she can _feel_ the branded "H" beneath your clothes. She traces it with her finger. You wonder how the metal is sensate. You wonder how strong that fist is.

“You're looking even better today.” Homelander says to her.

“Thanks to you.” Stormfront smiles up at him. He stands at the foot of her bed, leaning against it on his arms. You stand beside her bed, your eyes fixed on the floor.

One of your babies kicks. Stormfront smiles wide and makes a soft cooing sound.

The metal hand drops from your belly. You step two paces backwards, still facing her.

You stand completely still as the two Supes talk to one another. It occurs to you that in the beginning, Stormfront might have had to make an effort to rarely look at your face or address you directly. 

But in no time at all you felt as though she had genuinely begun to forget you were there. You were basically furniture to her at this point. Like a lamp, but one that held her babies instead of a light bulb.

“They've still got their work cut out for them, I'm afraid.” Homelander walks around to the side of her bed and rests one hand on her cheek. Her face looks more or less normal again, minus the one missing eye. Her hair has regrown except in the back of her head where it was shaved. The hole in her skull has to remain clear of hair that might get in the way. That is where the wires that spread outward from her body are plugged into her brain. The plugs continue all the way down her spine. Wires snake in between vertebrae.

“Even once they finish with the rest of your limbs, they still haven't figured out a way to get this whole thing mobile yet.” Homelander shakes his head. “I hate seeing you wired to a wall of computers like this, like a dog on a short leash. Plus the doctor told me, one power outage and you're brain-dead forever. They had to do some pretty delicate surgery. I don't like it.”

She nods. “Well, Rome wasn't built in a day. For now, I made sure we’ve got two backup power sources and a battery. Can’t be too careful.”

Her eyes come to rest on your baby bump. “Speaking of it, you are making sure the twins get plenty of sunlight? Babies need that.”

By now you are accustomed to being referred to in this manner. As though your son and your daughter were already born instead of still inside you.

The Super lovers never spoke to one another in terms of what food _you_ were given. They talked about the babies getting fresh greens and red meat.

“The Lebensborn Ward has a balcony, just like this one. I make sure they use it every day. It's nice for me too. Good place to jump off and land on rather than coming in through the window.” He chuckles. 

In front of her, you notice, he has always referred to the Maternity Ward as the Lebensborn Ward.

You stand like a statue as the two of them discuss baby names. Your back aches and your feet throb. You rest both hands on your swollen belly. 

At last Homelander leads you out of Stormfront's room and back to the elevator.

The Maternity Ward ten floors down is brightly-lit, comfortable, and furnished with a wide balcony full of the sorts of chairs used for sunbathing. They are made of light-colored wood and covered with soft yellow cushions.

You step out of the elevator and into the common area, where two heavily pregnant women sit on a wide black leather couch in front of a television.

Beside them, another woman sits. Her blonde-brown hair is up in a tight bun. She has high cheekbones and bright green eyes. She is nursing her daughter.

Homelander's daughter.

When Camilla gave birth and returned from the delivery room in one piece, you felt a great swell of relief. And then kicked yourself internally, because you had thought first and foremost of what that implied for you. Not about the fact that she was still alive, herself. Were you turning into _him?_ Into someone like Homelander?

When the Supe was nowhere near his women and the four of you could sit together and talk more freely, everyone had given voice to their shared fears. You feared the baby making use of its powers to rip or laser its way out of you, or tearing you apart during the delivery. But her little daughter has so far not done anything that normal babies aren't able to do. 

Yet, you think, you would personally place your bets on the baby growing up to be a Supe. You see nothing of Camilla in the child's face and everything of Homelander. The eyes, the chin, the shade of her hair. You wonder exactly how genes between the Super and the human operate. It is as though his superior genetic code simply overrode that of the baby's mother.

You take your seat beside the nursing twenty-two year-old and her two-week old baby. You do not meet one another's eyes but you feel her hand resting on top of yours.

She gives it a reassuring squeeze. You have all gotten into the habit of offering one another what little comfort or reassurance you can after a visit to Stormfront.

Homelander says nothing to her directly. He just taps her on the shoulder.

She rises and hands her baby to the woman next to her. By now, you all know his routines.

He taps your shoulder as well. You grit your teeth and follow. Your lower back aches so much today, you wish he had chosen one of the others. Then you mentally berate yourself for having such a thought. Aren't _they_ in pain, as much as _you_?

On either side of the common area there are six private rooms, making twelve rooms in total. The other two sides consist of the shining steel elevator and the wide, white-tiled balcony with its polished steel railing.

You have picked your own tiny room, as the other three have, leaving eight of them unoccupied. After Camilla gave birth Homelander immediately ordered one of the rooms redone in a style that reminds you of the living room of his cabins. Rustic, softly lit, and with nothing in it except a wide cream-colored sofa covered in throw pillows and knit blankets.

Camilla takes her place on one end of the sofa. One of her leaking breasts is still exposed, pushed up and out of her nursing bra and dark blue maternity dress. She lifts out the other as well.

She runs her fingers through his thick blonde hair.

Homelander lays upon his back with his head resting on her lap. He lavishes that swollen breast with strokes and gentle kisses before clamping his mouth on her nipple with a ravenous expression. 

He suckles at it, his face full of ecstasy. As though drawing from her a deep fulfilment that has been too long denied. Even though he does this to her regularly, you think, he so often does it as though he is starving.

You watch, and wait.

Still nursing from her, Homelander reaches down to his uniform pants. He lowers them just enough to allow his erection to spring free.

That's your cue. You feel the texture of a knit blanket against your knees as you take your place on the sofa, your head between his thighs. You tease his cock with your tongue before deep-throating it down to the base. His musky, masculine scent is familiar to you by now.

Suckling milk from her while you suck him, this nursing blowjob, has a more calming effect on Homelander than anything else you have seen. After he spends in your mouth he holds you both on opposite sides of him, stroking your bodies and telling you what good girls you are. After about fifteen minutes of this he kisses both of your foreheads and walks out onto the balcony. 

Homelander leaps into the sky.

***

Contractions wake you at four a.m. the following morning. You sit up in your bed and gasp, clutching your belly. The next wave hits twice as hard and you hear your own shrill scream.

You feel warm wetness between your thighs, soaking into your maternity dress. You pray that it is only your water breaking. _Could it be blood?_ Is your first thought. _How much?_ You put a hand between your thighs and then bring it up to your face. In the darkness of the room, it is impossible to tell. 

You squeeze your eyes shut against the sudden light above you. You hear rather than see a nurse at your bedside and feel the pinch of a thick needle in your arm.

Whatever they are pumping into your vein feels like ice. You are being lifted onto a gurney and wheeled out of the room, but you can’t focus anymore. Your eyes roll back in your head.

The spasms of childbirth still wrack your body but they feel distant now. The colors swimming before your eyes remind you of the kaleidoscopes you played with in grade school. 

You feel as though you are floating on your back upon the ocean. Except the saltwater is perfectly still and it feels as warm as your bathtub back home. A contraction hits and you swim in a backstroke, moving across the surface. 

Your sense of time feels out of joint. Your mind drifts into sleep for what might be any number of hours. You are awoken by a stab of pain or another contraction, and then slip back into the void.

You smell blood and your own sweat. You begin to feel the pressure of a hospital bed beneath you, and blankets on top of you. Sensation returns to your limbs and you open your eyes. 

Harsh fluorescent light hits them, and you squint. 

The hospital-style room around you lacks any of the soft lighting or more homey accents of the Lebensborn Ward. The antiseptic smell of industrial disinfectant fills your nose, competing with the remnants of your own stale sweat. You can feel your swollen breasts leaking. Your belly feels empty and flat. Your mouth is like sandpaper.

There is a brown chair to the right of your hospital bed, but no one is seated there. You cast your eyes about for a crib, a bassinet...for any sign of your two babies. You see nothing except the small room. It is scrupulously clean and devoid of life.

To the left of your bed you see an IV stand. It is attached to your arm on that side, dripping clear liquid into your vein. 

You yank it out and swing your legs around to the side of the bed. Your feet feel unsteady. You grab the cold metal of the IV stand in both of your fists and use it as a crutch of sorts. It takes you a long time to find your footing.

Your entire body aches when you walk, as though you have just run a marathon and then been thrown down a steep hill. Your breasts are heavy and you can feel them leaking. The clean white floor is freezing against your bare feet.

You hear a short burst of gunfire and cast your eyes towards the sound. You see the only door to the room, with a palmprint lock beside it and a wide glass panel at its center. The kind that is reinforced with steel mesh.

There is a thumping sound and a scream that ends in a gurgle. You hear a sound like thunder somewhere above you.

You take small, shuffling steps towards the door. Your heart pounds in your ears. You want to scream, to shout loud enough to shake the building’s foundations. _Where are they? Where are my kids?_ Your chest feels like fire. _You can’t take them, you can’t keep us apart!_

_My babies, where are you?_

The bloody remnants of a person’s hand and forearm fly through the air and hit the glass in front of you, splattering like a bug on a windshield. The arm is clad in the white coat of a doctor.

At last you reach the door and peer out. 

You see a woman. Her hair is long and black, parted in the middle. Her features are obviously Japanese and her face wears a determined, feral expression. She is clad in Vought-branded medical scrubs…

Yet she is standing over two dead men dressed in the same. One of them looks as though she ripped his face clean off. You see bloodstains all over the hallway. The woman’s hands are soaked in fresh blood up to her elbows.

It occurs to you that this should be a terrifying sight...but your mind feels like an engine pushed too far into the red. As though it has been roaring too hard for too long to sustain any kind of fear.

Instead, you see the panels of comics behind your eyes. The frames of a hundred half-remembered movies. Supe against supe, one mighty power against another while the common folk like you can only watch, or run and hide. Stories of vendettas, of challenges. Of fisticuffs that send skyscrapers crashing to the ground.

You let go of the IV stand and bang against the bloody glass with both of your hands. You don’t stop, even as your palms feel bruised and your skin begins to bleed. You bellow in the Supe woman’s direction, screaming to her for help.

Her dark eyes turn towards you and you see them widen with obvious shock.

She lifts her crimson-stained hands and gestures at you to step back from the door. You scamper towards the opposite wall, clutching the IV stand for support again. You have almost reached it when you hear a terrifying crash.

You turn around to see the bent remnants of the door laying on the floor. The woman runs towards you and stops short, regarding you with a saucer-eyed expression. You wonder how disheveled your hair is, and how manic your face must look.

Your body’s actions feel as though they arise from deep instinct instead of conscious intent. You fall to your knees and kiss her bloodstained black leather shoes, as you have so often done to Homelander’s boots. 

You hear a high, shrill sound and realize that you are laughing. The laughter sounds manic even in your own ears.

You spread your arms wide in a gesture of supplication and turn your face upward to meet her gaze. She meets your eyes with a puzzled expression but does not say a word.

“Mighty one! Look at you, in all your glory!” You shout the words up at her. “A Supe, here to challenge her foe! Is it Homelander...or is it Stormfront? The Tokyo Terror versus the Briquette Bitch!” 

You hear your own high-pitched laughter and bite back against it. You lower your voice and plant slavish kisses on her left boot, and then her right before speaking again. “You cannot imagine how much I want you to win. But please, I’m begging you...before you do, take me to my newborn twins!”

She steps back from you. You grab at her feet in blind panic for a moment before you see a man’s face in front of your own. You feel his hands clutching your arms, supporting you.

You sag against him and look up into two dark eyes, framed by jet-black eyebrows. His skin is olive in tone and you see a gold earring in one ear. When he speaks, it is in a thick French accent.

_“Jen reviens pas_ , what is this?” His voice is like honey. “Who, who took your babies?”

You clutch at the soft cotton of his dark green shirt with your hands. Your palms are bloody from beating against the door and they leave stains on the fabric. “Homelander.” You gasp the word up at him. “He’s using us for breeding. He lost one son and wanted more.”

He exchanges a glance with the Supe, who is now crouched beside him. They share an open-mouthed expression for a long moment. 

Both of their faces harden with rage.

_"Mon cœur… ”_ He whispers to you. “Homelander. Yes, he lost his son. Well, _mon cherie,_ do you want to know who has Ryan now? Mallory. That’s our boss. CIA, top level.”

His words knock the wind from your lungs. Your vision darkens around the edges and you wonder if you are going into shock. 

_They know his name._ The revelation is like a drumbeat in your ears. _Ryan. I didn’t say it, he did. They know the name of Homelander’s firstborn son._

_And somehow, they got Ryan away from him._

Your body feels leadened with exhaustion. Your vision fades to a pinprick of light and the world goes black.

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6: From Ev'ry Mountainside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Showdown.

You awake. Before you even open your eyes you feel two hungry, wet mouths latched on to your nipples. You feel them suckling at you, and the pressure of tiny fists against the skin of your bosom.

You look down and see a baby at each breast. They are both wrapped tight in white blankets. Each wears a small knit cap, one pink and one blue. A nest of cloths and towels props them up, supports them in your lap.

You are seated in a wheelchair. The chair is in the back of a long, windowless van. You see straps around the chair wheels that secure it in place and grooves in the floor below you, as though the vehicle were designed for this purpose.

In front of you, on the opposite wall of the van, you see a row of something that looks like light brown packages, brick-shaped. They are connected by many wires.

You look to your left. Camilla is seated there, clutching her daughter tight to her chest. Next to Camilla are two of Homelander’s other women, wheelchair-bound as well and heavily pregnant. The driver’s seat of the van is empty, you are not in motion. You can see a bit of blue-white, frigid winter sky through the front windshield. 

All three women are staring in your direction. Not at you but past you, at something to your right.

The air is absolutely freezing. You smell the crisp scent of a forest on a cold winter morning.

You look to your right. The doors at the end of the van are open wide. The Supe whom you called the “Tokyo Terror” stands with her back to you, with the man who knew Ryan’s name standing beside her. 

A few yards away, facing them both, you recognize a familiar shape. Deep blue, blood red, accented with gold. A flag cape that whips about in the winter wind. 

_Homelander._ You gasp and flinch. Your arms clutch at the blankets that support your son and daughter, holding them tight to your chest. They continue nursing, oblivious.

You see him extend one red-gloved hand. He points a finger at the man. Homelander stands in an open, lightly wooded area where the trees hang with icicles and the grass is frozen on the ground.

“ _You._ ” Homelander's voice is low, guttural. It rasps in your ears. The fury in it makes every muscle in your body clench. “I know you. You’re the one they call Frenchie.”

_That’s appropriate._ You think. The man raises his right hand and you see that there is something in it, something about the size of an old walkie-talkie with a few looped yellow wires sticking out.

You can’t see his face, only the back of his head. Yet you hear a sort of grim smile in Frenchie’s voice when he speaks. 

“See this? Detonator. I learned the trick from a friend. You know the drill, don’t you?”

Across the icy landscape you see Homelander grit his teeth. The muscles in his chiseled jaw twitch.

Frenchie continues. “I have wired this van with enough C-4 to blow up a building.”

You startle and begin to shake. Your eyes go to the row of small, brick-like things wired together. They sit so close to you, you could almost kick one. The hair on the back of your neck stands up and your heart hammers in your ears. _That's a bomb._

Your focus snaps to Homelander. His eyes glow red. Fury twists his face. His American flag cape ripples in the morning breeze.

Frenchie's soft, accented voice continues. "But there is another bomb back in that big place we just came from, eh?" He wiggles the detonator in his hand. You hear the wires clacking against one another. The morning air is frigid, bright...and utterly silent. Some remote part of your mind thinks, _Even the birds have fled from Homelander._

Frenchie takes a deep breath and continues. “I hid the packages of C-4 somewhere in that mess of computers attached to whatever your Nazi bitch still calls a brain.”

You can't see the gestures that the Supe woman is making from behind, but you see her dark-maned head shake back and forth and her arms move. 

Frenchie's head turns towards her, and then back to Homelander. “Kimiko. She just said that Stormfront killed her brother. That's why we came here, you see. Following a lead and looking to finish the job on her. Then we found out what _else_ you were up to here. When we see this…”

He makes a gesture, pointing behind himself with the thumb of his free left hand. Frenchie indicates the women and babies in the van without looking at them. Without taking his eyes off of Homelander.

“Kimiko tells me that her revenge can wait.”

_Kimiko,_ you think. So, that was the name of this indomitable Supe. You feel a swell of gratitude towards her...balanced by an equal wave of terror at the thought of the detonator being triggered, the bomb going off, the lives of your son and daughter extinguished within days of having begun. The air still chills you to your marrow but you no longer notice the cold.

“Now, let's talk about Stormfront’s bomb.” Frenchie continues. “C-4 might not kill her, she is a Supe after all. But one of these ladies you're keeping prisoner here was kind enough to tell me about Stormfront's bionic problem. I blow her computer, well…”

Homelander's eyes turn bright electric red and you see his fists clench at his sides. The familiar sound that his eyes make is loud in the morning air. He looks past Frenchie and into the interior of the van, at the four fleeing members of his harem. His voice rises.

“You _betrayed_ me.” His lips form a snarl.

“Stormfront’s heart might still beat. But she will be a vegetable, as they say, no?” You hear Frenchie's voice again but cannot tear your own eyes from the pair that blaze red.

“Now, _her_ bomb has a timer. You have enough time to get there and shut it off if you leave now. If you don’t...then boom. No more Nazi sweetheart for you. If I use this detonator to blow up the van, of course the blast doesn't phase you...but say goodbye to your whole harem and all of your ‘Lebensborn’ babies. Kimiko and I, we die happy don't we? Knowing that we hurt a fucker like you. And saved the world from a pack of little Homelanders.”

You stare at the man who has taken you in every sense of the word, then at your son and your daughter, then back to him. 

Homelander's eyes return to a bright shade of blue. He stands upon the frozen grass with both hands on his hips, his chest puffed out. His palms rest right beneath his golden eagle belt. The pose makes you think of a dozen of his ads and movie posters all at once. The gold accents of his uniform shine in the morning sun.

“My babies might be as strong as I am.” The confident tone of his voice has a hollow ring to it, you think. Not quite good enough for a commercial. “You might kill no one except yourself, that one, and four completely replaceable sluts.”

“That’s a chance you wanna take?” You see Frenchie’s gold earring flash in the sunlight as he shakes his head. “Even if they are Supes, their powers might not have shown up yet. It’s hard to know with these kinds of things. You’re wasting time though. Stormfront doesn’t have forever. Tick tock, eh? Tick tock.” 

You watch Homelander's face twist with anguish. Your heart is in your throat.

He stares up at the sky, and then hangs his head.

When he lifts it again, his face is a mask of pure fury.

You bite your lip until you can taste blood.

Homelander rises from the ground. Not flying, only hovering there. You see that his feet are pointed downward and his arms are lifted. It’s a pose you have seen him take when addressing crowds of a thousand adoring fans. Lifting himself above them as they reach out to lay even a finger upon his red-booted feet, trimmed in gold thread. 

The same feet that you have been made to lavish kisses upon for untold nights now. To clean with your tongue in a plea for mercy that might work or might not, depending on his mood.

The boots that have crushed in the heads of people who just happened to be in his way.

When he speaks again his eyes focus not on the two people standing in front of the van, but the four women inside it.

“I will fly. I will fly to save the woman I love.” His eyes flash red again before returning to their icy shade of blue. Yet his face still blazes with rage. “You’re all just snatches and I can make more children. Haven’t I proven that I’m good at it?”

He rises further into the air, lifting himself up. His voice grows thunderous in your ears. “But do you honestly think that you can run away from me? I'm _Homelander_. I _will_ find you.”

His eyes flicker over Frenchie and Kimiko before coming to rest on his harem once more.

“You'll always be mine. I'll always be _in_ you.”

He rises further upward, an inch at a time. The stripes of his cape ripple in the winter wind. The morning sun makes them almost glow. 

“You'll always see me, every time you look at my son or my daughter. You'll know you are my snatch every morning when you look in the mirror. At your stomach.”

His arms, outstretched, rise higher. He grits his teeth for a moment and continues. “Any time you see a bird or a plane…anything above you, anything that looks down at you from a great height...you will shake and cower like the little nothing you are. There's nowhere I can't go. I may drop out of the sky at _any_ moment to reclaim what is mine.”

He points one red-gloved finger straight at your face as he ascends into the air. His eyes bore into your own. “You'll never be able to see an American flag without remembering that _you're_ the one who calls me Daddy. You will always be mine. I will find you. Those are _my_ children. You stupid whore.”

Your eyes catch only a streak of red, white and blue as he shoots into the clouds. Off to save Stormfront. 

Up, up and away.

***

Many hours later, you lay your two infants down to sleep in nests of blankets upon a battered old green cot. 

You have bathed, eaten, changed your babies and rested. You are still tired but find you cannot keep still any longer. You wear a simple gray sweatsuit now, at least a size too big for you. You have warm socks and sneakers on your feet. Your hair is freshly washed and brushed. 

Your breasts feel tender but they no longer ache so much. Your daughter and son have both had their fill. 

You rise to your feet and exit the small room that you share with Camilla and the others, for the moment at least. It smells of diapers and sweat. There are no windows.

You walk out through the open door, into the main shared room. It has the smell of a musty old basement.

Fluorescent light fixtures hang overhead from short chains, protected by a wire cage. Pipes snake along the walls and disappear into the ceiling above. The walls themselves are a mix of concrete, exposed brick and steel shelves. On the shelves you see loose ammunition, gun parts and many boxes taped shut.

Your head turns towards raised voices. At the center of the room, Frenchie and Kimiko are having a heated discussion with their boss. Kimiko says nothing aloud but her gestures catch your eye. 

The Supe and her thick-accented friend are facing you, while their boss stands with her back to you. The three of them stand at a makeshift table built out of stacked boxes and a long wooden board. Upon the table, you see a few small firearms. They are stacked next to empty white paper bags with the label of a takeout restaurant that serves fish and chips. 

You see Kimiko take a piece of paper in her hands and hold it up, presenting it to the older woman. _Mallory,_ you remember. _That’s what Frenchie said. CIA, top level._

Mallory arrived while you were showering and you have not even seen her face yet. But, you think, this one must be the boss. Her posture reflects that status. Even if she hadn’t been the only one in a black suit, with a necklace of pearls and small matching earrings. _This one is dressed to give orders,_ you think. _Not dressed for a fight._

You focus your eyes on the paper in Kimiko’s hands. It is a small placemat with a world map design. The kind you might be given when you ordered a kid’s meal.

Not all of the countries are labeled. The continents are painted bright, contrasting colors. The larger ones are given simple illustrations. A panda sits in China, a moose in Canada, a kangaroo in Australia.

At Kimiko’s elbow you see a few packages of snack foods. A half-eaten candy bar sits next to an open package of bright red licorice.

You hear the paper placemat crinkle as she sets it down upon the wood of the table. Kimiko then picks up a piece of licorice. 

Behind you, you hear Camilla’s soft voice as she sings to her baby.

Kimiko takes the red piece of licorice and places one end on the surface of the map, at the center of the United States. She twists the other end so that it resembles a bent straw, or a periscope. 

She mimes firing with it. _Pew pew pew,_ her mouth forms the words though she does not say them aloud. The licorice is taking aim at one country after another. You chew your lip, the meaning clear. _Homelander’s laser eyes_ , you think.

Kimiko sets the licorice down upon the map, picks up the next piece, and repeats the process. She does this until there are six bright red pieces there.

She then mimes a massive explosion with her hands, extending upward in the shape of a mushroom cloud. She sweeps the map off of the table with her arms. The bright red candy flies across the room, scattering in all directions. 

Kimiko crouches down, retrieves the map placemat, and sets it back upon the table.

She puts two pieces of red licorice on the United States. 

The third one, she sets down somewhere in the center of Europe. The next, in the center of Asia. She does the same for Africa, Australia, and South America, until each landmass has a bit of bright red licorice upon it.

Kimiko lifts her palms up and you notice that her nails are coated in bright blue polish. She lifts one hand while lowering the other, then reverses it. As though her hands are a scale. _Balance,_ you think. _She is saying... balance._

The picture takes shape in your mind. Homelander and eight-year-old Ryan in the United States. Then Camilla’s daughter. The babies of the two other women, still in the womb but not for long, and your twins. 

Kimiko is saying that you should be sent all over the world. Far from here.

“No.” Mallory’s hard voice rings through the basement. “You two aren’t American. You don’t know what you’re asking.” 

She faces them, not you, but you can see her fists clenching on the table. “Right now Ryan is the only one who can kill Homelander. Stormfront isn't quite on the same level but she's close. Nothing could ever make a mark on him except for another Supe on his level, and we can only hope that Ryan grows up to… meet his father in the air and bring him down, rather than turn into a copy of him. He's staying with a family right here in America and I won't tell you where.”

You see her loose blonde bun move back and forth as Mallory shakes her head. “We have to do the same for all the others. We are talking about potential weapons of mass destruction. You don't just gift wrap Homelander Jr. and hand him over to China on a silver platter.”

Kimiko repeats the gesture, more emphatically this time. _Balance._

You take one more step forward. 

You speak. Your voice rings through the basement, overpowering the din of exposed pipes and the roar of distant traffic. At last, your voice does not shake.

“Let _us_ decide.”

Mallory turns around to face you. Her features make you think for a moment about Homelander’s standards for breeding women--what Stormfront would call an Aryan face, with the blonde hair and blue eyes they valued. 

She is far enough advanced in age to be a grandmother. Her face is strong, almost aristocratic. It is carved with lines but not too deeply, and in a way that gives her a certain air of authority.

“Let us decide.” You repeat. The words come out steady, rising in tone. “Just facilitate our escape. Whatever paperwork that takes I don’t even know...but you do.”

You draw in a deep breath. All three pairs of eyes in the room are on you now, and all other voices have gone silent.

Kimiko gives you a small, soft smile and nods once.

“Let us choose the country. I never want to see New York or even America again. I guarantee that one of us wants to go back home to Norway. I want to go to New Zealand.”

Mallory regards you and purses her lips. “Why New Zealand?”

“Why not? It’s green, it’s beautiful, and if my babies are ever going to take orders from anyone then I want it to be someone like Jacinda Ardern. Not _ever_...some big corporation. I would die before I’d let that happen to them, like it did with Homelander. Believe me, he didn’t spare the details. The man loves to talk about himself. He was raised in a lab and made into a product. No humanity left.” 

You walk over to where Kimiko stands and extend your hand to touch the licorice-covered map. Your finger comes to rest in the sea Southeast of Australia. The drawing has no land there, only the blue background. “Besides, see? Most Americans don’t even remember to put it on our maps! Homelander is not likely to look there.”

You drop your hand from the map and fix your eyes on Mallory’s. “Frenchie and Kimiko are right. It's like the nuclear bomb. Mutually assured destruction. Would you have given the secrets of the bomb to Soviets back in the 20th century, if you could have, and you knew for certain that it was the _only_ way to make sure that the Cold War stayed cold instead of hot? I know _I_ would have.”

You gesture at the room behind you, a mess of pregnant women and babies.

Then you step back, lift your gray sweatshirt up to right beneath your sports bra, and lower the waistband of your sweatpants to just above your panties.

The branded “H” on your belly, exposed for all to see. 

No doubt the other two caught a glimpse already, you think. But not Mallory. You hear her gasp. One long, pale hand flies to her mouth.

“Mallory.” You meet her bright blue eyes with your own. “Think about everything we've been through. And I can't speak for any of the others but _I_ would do it all over again, more than once, if that was the _only_ way…”

You gesture down at the map, with its balanced spread of licorice all over the world. “To make this happen. To put a check on his unchecked power.”

You draw in a deep breath. “I know you’re CIA but you're a human being. And a woman. Are you a mother? Surely you have the connections to...send us all to the four corners of the Earth? No matter where we are, we will still be loyal to you after that. And so will our kids.”

At last, your resolve falters and you hear your voice begin to break. “How could we _not_ be?”

You lower your shirt, putting your clothing back into place.

Mallory closes the distance between you in a few long strides, her dress shoes loud against the hard basement floor.

She holds her arms out. You step towards her.

Mallory enfolds you in a hug. It feels like the same embrace your late mother would greet you with when you came home from college for Christmas, before the coronavirus took her from you.

You feel Mallory nodding. You hear her whisper, “Yes.”

You burst into tears of joy.


	7. Chapter 7, Epilogue: Let Freedom Ring!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

You stop reading aloud. You look up from the pages of _Goodnight, Moon_ and see that your twins have both fallen asleep already. 

You rise from your chair and return the slim hardback to a tall white bookshelf stuffed full of children’s books. It sits in between the two beds that take up most of the room. Your son David’s bed to your left, and your daughter Grace’s bed to your right. Both wear long white shirts as pajamas and sleep with their socks on.

You turn to tuck David in. He is seven now, along with his sister. You named him after your own late father, who passed in the pandemic almost eight years ago now. David sleeps on his back with his arms akimbo, his mouth slightly open. 

You turn toward Grace. She sleeps with her arms wrapped around a stuffed owl, her face buried in its softness. You named her after her godmother, Grace Mallory.

You tuck the soft green-and-white striped sheet in around her. Their bedspreads look like a field of wildflowers. The walls of this small shared bedroom are painted light green, with white framing around the door and window.

During the day, the window beside Grace’s bed looks out on the verdant hillsides of New Zealand. Now, several hours past sunset, the window is shut and the blinds are drawn.

You turn for one last look at your son and your daughter before you switch off the light.

Two blonde heads rest on their pillows. Two sets of blue eyes are shut for the night. 

Homelander is in every line of their faces, you think. It would be easy to look at them, and see only that. But you see _them_ , two perfectly normal and loving kids who can't get enough of playing tag with one another or going wading in the creek nearby.

You flip the lightswitch off and walk a few paces down the hallway, towards your own bedroom. You change into pajamas and sit down on the bed. You hear your mattress creaking beneath you. There is a gentle drizzle of rain against your window.

You remember the last time Grace Mallory visited her two godchildren. She had a way of saying "Any new developments?" With an angle to her eyebrows that clearly meant, _Well? Has it happened? Have their eyes cut anyone in half?_

You have told her the same thing each time. Your kids are strong and durable, they have never been sick. When they are under heavy stress their eyes will occasionally glow an electric red, and when that happens you stop everything to practice relaxation techniques with them. Grace likes the exercise where you list five things you can see, four things you can feel, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste. A grounding exercise. 

For David, controlled breathing works better. Both exercises help you as well.

Your twins have smart watches that monitor your pulse, and rarely take them off unless they are in the bath. Their eyes return to normal when their heart rate does. It’s a useful tool. 

You remember the first time they asked about their father. And the second time, and the third. Kids do tend to be repetitive. Each time, your answer is the same.

“He was mean, and I didn't want him to be mean to you because I love you so much. So, I left.”

_They need the chance to grow up_ , you think. They deserve many years of normality before they finally learn just _how_ mean he was. 

Was...and still is. You know just from the television that Homelander has not aged a day. He appears to do so very slowly, if at all.

David and Grace need to grow up before they know the full story of why you sometimes wake up screaming in the night.

You slide into bed and feel the steady weight of your blankets, the cool softness of your pillow. You reach into your nightstand and retrieve your music player. You push the earbuds into your ears.

Over the years, you have found that sleep comes easiest with music. You have a long playlist of the songs that have sustained you since you left America, but you only listen to it like this. Privately, with headphones. Never in a way your kids can hear.

All of them are songs from your former country. You hum along with a familiar guitar riff.

You have never forgotten the words you heard from Grace Mallory, years ago. "Only a Supe on Homelander's level can bring him down."

It’s what you envision every time you listen to this playlist. Your little David and Grace, all grown up. Meeting their father in the sky and ending his reign of terror at last. Some nights you picture all six of his children encircling him above the fluffy white clouds while the sun blazes bright above them. They fly around him like spokes on a wheel, with Homelander at the center. All of their eyes glow red, and fire at once.

The end of a nightmare. For you, and the rest of the world.

You mouth along with the familiar lyrics of your playlist until the peace of sleep envelopes you.

[Check out your playlist here! ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLaGjPPh5u8g7yvUvnEGL0zejbWeUx06yW)

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: This was written in the months after the Season 2 finale. We all know The Boys will get back together in Season 3 when it finally rolls around. But this is the current situation for our favorite characters:
> 
> The White House is opening an Office of Supe Affairs. Victoria Nuemann is the new Czar. One of the last things Grace Mallory said to Billy Butcher was, “She is sneaking me some off-the-books funding for a team that can keep tabs on the Supes.” 
> 
> She offered him a position on that team but he did not respond in the affirmative, just walked away.
> 
> Hughie isn't on the team, he is working for Victoria Neuman. Doesn’t want to get covered in as many blood and guts. We’ll see how that works out…
> 
> Mother’s Milk is with his family.
> 
> Frenchie and Kimiko are happy to have been cleared of all charges and were last seen leaving the basement of that pawnshop. They were going dancing. But unlike the others, they have no reason to quit doing what they are doing. You might say that at this point The Boys consist of one woman behind a desk, our favorite Supe in blue nail polish, and the guy who stuck a bomb up Translucent’s ass. If Mallory has a task to perform or a lead to investigate they are still the two best people to do it.
> 
> That’s why you will see some people and not others in this story. It’s an effort to stick to canon.


End file.
